Exchange
by eris-11
Summary: "Of all human inventions the organization, a machine constructed of people performing interdependent functions, is the most powerful." -Robert Shea. Letters, notes, and missives exchanged between Lady Amelia Trevelyan and the many members of the Inquisition between 9:40 and 9:42 Dragon, archived in no strict order.
1. Cullen and Amelia, the Emerald Graves

Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan,

Thank you for the missive you sent. It was unexpected, and well-received. I appreciate the thought.

Please keep me updated on the status of the situation in the Emerald Graves. Leliana was mute on the subject, though I'm sure it wasn't for lack of knowledge. I probably won't get more out of you but I thought I'd ask.

Regards,

Commander Cullen Rutherford

Cullen,

Really? **My** fancy title and **your** fancy title and ending with " **regards**?" I appreciate the respect (and it's definitely returned) but I think we're on a first name basis by now, seriously. I can practically hear your armor creaking from across the continent. (Though that being said, I do very much miss the sound. It always accompanies you).

Nonetheless, I was glad to hear from you. Happy to hear that you appreciated your gift-the only thing I could do better is buy you a real mabari. . .I'll hold off on that.

The Venatori in the Emerald Graves are popping up everywhere like nugs, though I'm a lot more inclined to slay fascistic Tevinters than Leliana's favorite type of pet. Dorian is grimmer than usual, but that's not new; he hates that we have to fight his countrymen. Cassandra's doing well, though I'd swear I saw her smiling not too long ago. . .if Corypheus doesn't end the world, that sight surely will. And Iron Bull is just happy to beat up Vints, not to mention he tells the best campfire stories.

I've enclosed a copy of a relevant letter that Dorian found on the corpse of one of the Venatori mages. It contains information about red lyrium, though from what I read I doubt it will help Dagna's research. Nonetheless, I thought I'd send it.

Write back soon-your letters keep me going on these shadowy, spooky nights.

Yours,

Amelia Trevelyan

Lady Amelia,

Letter writing is not one of my strengths, and I also can't read your mind all the way from Skyhold. So you'll have to forgive any breaches or overreaches in decorum. I'll try to be less not be so alter my tone from now on?

Thank you for the Venatori letter you found. Dagna was excited when she read it, so I suppose that's a good sign, albeit also a rather foreboding one. She told me she'd have results in within the week, so if you and your party don't return from the Graves by then, expect a letter from her.

Keep me updated and stay safe.

Commander Cullen


	2. Amelia and Dorian, the Western Approach

Dorian,

Maker's hairy arse, you would HATE it here. I hate it here and it's only been a night. It's dry and it's hot and I have sand in places that even the Maker won't talk about and we almost got killed by a particularly rude set of terrors vomited out of a rift and Snaggles almost bit my finger off during our fight with said terrors.

I wish you were here, though. We could bounce complaints off each other and everything-just like always.

Did you get that bottle of Vint-9 Rowan's Rose I left you? I had it shipped from my uncle's stores in Ostwick-he was more than happy to fulfill his favorite niece's request, though I didn't tell him it was going to you; I'd rather let him enjoy the mental image of me getting drunk as an Orzammar noble at a wedding. Look at me, complaining and wishing you were here, when I know you'd rather be sipping wine and reading up on new theories in magic.

Tell me about anything particularly interesting that happens while I'm gone. Josephine sends me gossip, sure, but that's all business. I'd rather get all the good stuff from you.

Write back when you can-I can't imagine how _terribly_ busy it must be back at Skyhold.

Amelia

* * *

My dear Amelia,

It's wonderful to hear from you. I'm sorry about how dry and sandy it is where you are-perhaps you could get a certain military commander to run you a bath when you return? Ugh, look at me matchmaking-I sound like my mother.

The wine you had sent to me is utterly _divine_. So divine, in fact, that I even managed to save some for you to try when you get back. See what you people have done to me? I can't even finish a bottle of wine anymore.

You asked for gossip and trust me when I say that my ears are pinned to every bloody wall listening to every possible scrap of information. Well, more so than usual anyway. We did have a few nobles from Starkhaven arrive three days ago and make a number of. . . _very_ thinly veiled insults to the Inquisition and to Skyhold. But before you run back here in a rage with a fresh quiver of arrows, I'll have you know that Josephine and Leliana very much put them in their place. If I remember correctly, our dear ambassador said something to the effect of the Inquisition cutting off someone's horse supply from Ostwick. Meanwhile, Leliana just stood there being terrifying. Oh, you should have seen it-art in its truest form.

Keep your wits about you out there.

Dorian


	3. Interlude, the Emerald Graves

Iron Bull's voice cut through the din of the battle, which was just descending from its peak now that the pride demon was at least subdued. "Shit, Amelia's down! Dorian, get in there!"

Dorian cursed. " _Fastas vas_!" he snapped, and swiftly used a burst of magic to extricate himself from the shades coming at him before sprinting in. He knew Cassandra had to have heard it but she was busy taking out a particularly pesky terror and couldn't afford to divert her eyes. Dorian felt his hands shaking as he quickly checked Mel's pulse-faint but definitely there. He let out a long breath of relief before pulling a potion from his belt. "Bull, cover us!"

"Way ahead of you, kadan. We're almost done here anyway," Bull replied, and laid the final blow upon the now-rousing pride demon before slicing through the remaining shades.

Dorian gently slapped at Mel's reddened cheeks, cursing under his breath. "Come on, Amelia, this rift won't seal itself-"

Mel awoke with a pained cough, her hand flying to to the shallow, bloodied gashes along the portion of her armor that covered her ribcage. Her eyes were still foggy as she tried to focus on Dorian. "Fucking _shit_ -"

"Rift, Amelia!"

"Okay, okay-" Amelia struggled up and before Dorian could help, Bull was boosting her on his own, while Cassandra loped towards them with a slight limp. Mel hissed in pain as she raised her arm and winced as she sealed the rift; Dorian shook his head as the burst of magic made his teeth fuzzy.

"What hit you, Inquisitor? When I'd last looked in your direction you were nearly invisible," Cassandra asked, her face harsh like a mentor's but still concerned like a friend's.

Mel scrunched up her nose as the pain in her lacerations flared. "Laying traps. Got cocky and forgot that shades have some big fucking claws. Solas would be so proud, always reminding me to be wary of demons and such."

"Solas would not dream to mock you-he would worry," Cassandra retorted. "Let us return to camp."

"Can you walk, boss? If not, I can-"

Amelia smirked as she glanced up at Bull. "Can't let the troops see their fearless leader carted in like a hapless maiden, now can we?" she joked. "Thanks, but your arm is plenty. Just do me a favor and don't let me fall."

"Not a chance," Bull replied with a smile.

They began to walk-slowly, slower than Mel would've wanted if not for her stupid wound-and she turned to Dorian. "Alright, go on, Dorian. Scold, admonish, reprimand, finger-wag. I know you want to. It wouldn't be a proper scrap if you didn't."

Dorian's expression was almost comical in its annoyance, smeared as it was by blood and demon remnants. "You are far too eager to take risks for someone whose main skill is laying traps and shooting arrows, Amelia. Maker forbid there comes a time when we have to bring pieces of you back to your dear commander."

"Please never say that within earshot of the man, for his own sake."

* * *

Amelia would never get used to the way that people fawned over her, now that she was touched by the Maker or Andraste or whatever it was that everyone else called it. Having been raised in nobility, she'd been doted on plenty in her youth, which was kind and innocently-meant at best and cloyingly aggravating at worst, but her life in Ostwick was nothing compared to what it was like to be the Inquisitor.

The moment they arrived at Direstone Camp, two Inquisition soldiers and the healer all rushed to her, taking her from Bull and guiding her to the tent she shared with Cassandra.

"I can move on my own, Browdin, I promise-" Amelia insisted, but growled under her breath in annoyance as Dorian cut her off.

"She's lying. Lay her down and keep her there, would you?" he said in his usual flippant tone, and Amelia looked back to glare at him; he responded with a 'go ahead' wave of his hand as he followed them, the air around him subtly starting to shift as he presumably gathered mana for healing spells.

Amelia decided to stop protesting and let herself be placed on the cot in the tent; the world around her spun, making her scrunch her eyes closed, and Dorian rolled his eyes.

"I told you to take it easy, Amelia-"

"Don't snip at me, I didn't do anything-"

Dorian knelt next to the cot and used a quick spell to fill a nearby basin with water. "Hush and let me work. Be a dear and grab rags, some elfroot, and serah Mirae, would you please?" He glanced up at Browdin and he nodded curtly before darting out of the tent.

"I'm sorry, Dorian. I'm not usually so. . .sloppy," Amelia murmured, tugging off her outer layer of clothing.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. I'd rather take time to patch up the Herald of Andraste than watch our only source of closing the rifts succumb to her wounds," Dorian replied, and while his tone was as breezy and confident as usual, Mel could hear the bit of strain at the edge. She tentatively caught his eye.

"Say that all you want, but we both know I was, in fact, sloppy," Mel added, and Dorian paused for a moment before rolling his eyes and then letting out a quick huff of laughter.

"I already told you off on the way here, I don't think it needs doing again," he said, and gave her a quick grin. The tent flapped open again to reveal the same soldier from before, now holding a wicker box of healing salves with a bowl of water perched precariously on top. Dorian darted up from where he'd been sitting to help him. "Mm, allow me-" He took the bowl in one hand and nodded for him to place the box on the floor, and out of the corner of her eye Mel watched Browdin salute and leave the tent again.

She cast her gaze over to Dorian, who'd begun to dampen a rag.

"What? Can't keep your eyes off me, I see?"

Mel smiled, hoping that her exhaustion made it look as genuine as she felt. "Thank you, Dorian?"

He arched a suspicious eyebrow, and the sight both saddened and endeared her-how was it that he didn't know how much his friendship meant to her? "What for?"

"For. . .always being there for me. I look to you first when we're out here like this, so. . .thank you."

He looked surprised for a moment, his hand hovering with the still-wet rag, before a warm smile lit up his face. "Always, my friend."


	4. Garlan and Amelia, the Exalted Plains

To my sister, apparently now called "Her Worship Lady Inquisitor Herald" or something,

Only you would leave for a peace conference and come out of it a religious figure leading a growing army of the Chantry's faithful! I know you're the youngest Trevelyan, Mel, but if you wanted attention you could've just participated in the Grand Tourney under a different name-Oh, wait, you already did that. I suppose starting a quasi-religious movement was the next best thing.

I'm glad to hear you're in one piece. We all are. When we heard that the entire village of Haven fucking exploded, Mother was hysterical and Father didn't speak to anyone-it was the worst news any of us had ever gotten, and they didn't know what to do. Helena didn't take it too well, though I couldn't tell much just from letters. Willem is...well, you know. Willem. And there was just a single letter from Jeyne, which we were lucky to even receive considering how she's a nomadic apostate these days. But you're alive, and we're grateful.

Mother's over my shoulder whinging at me as I speak...she wants me to "write down what I say word for word, Garlan Lawrence Trevelyan! I know you can hear me!" But basically, she's glad you're okay and she wants you to write home more.

It's a bit quieter without you-you were always good at handing out orders, delegating, but at the same time never making anyone feel beneath you. I assume you're putting that to use in the Inquisition.

Keep yourself safe, alright? We all want to hear your stories in person-you always tell them best.

Sincerely,

Garlan Trevelyan

* * *

To the most annoying brother in the world,

It's not like I _wasn't_ going to write, it's just. . .

Alright fine, you've got me. Every time I had time-which wasn't often, seriously!-I'd just sit at my writing desk, unable to even think of a proper salutation, much less a way to explain what's been happening. Yes, I'm the Inquisitor, and yes there's a crazed magister out to make that hole in the sky even bigger, but that's not even an inch of this mile-long mess, and it'd take me that much paper to explain it all.

(And will you ever let me live down the Grand Tourney in 9:37? I did well!)

I didn't mean to get caught up in all this, Garlan. It all happened so fast. . .and now look at me. Big glowing magic mark on my hand, leading an army, and hanging on by the skin of my damn teeth. I'm glad that everyone at home is alright. Mother is. . .as fine as can be expected, which is exactly what I expected. I'm hoping that Father is. . .proud of me? Is that too much to ask? Probably.

So much is expected of me in this role, Garlan. So much. Every choice I make matters far too much, from rubbing elbows at the Winter Palace to taking out bandits on the coast to choosing what kind of bed I want in my room (it's a four-poster that I had imported from Markham, by the way. I've never really been one to ask for much, but this is the one thing I wanted for _me_ ). If you have any pointers, I'd welcome them.

Now that you've called me out on it, I promise to try to write more. Really!

Love,

Mel


End file.
